poetry by j matthew waters

Archive for the tag “angels”

there is an undefinable sweetness
lingering in my mind
leaving me curious as to whether
I may be dead or alive
I’ve been walking in a fog now
for nearly a fortnight
kicking the dirt beneath my feet
wondering if it’s the very earth
I was miraculously born into
there’s no need to worry
or so say the angels in the field
shadowing flock beneath their wings
guiding them toward shelter
sooner or later morning fog will clear
burned away by memories
past and present and future

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it’s late in the afternoon
shadows stretch toward the river
covering its rocky banks with a
thin layer of geometric trickery
I find myself at the edge
standing calmly yet powerless
visualizing what changes must be made
to continue on this journey
opportunities run rampant
ubiquitous as the setting sun
brave and polished and callous
I pick one or three out of thin air
courage is overrated
or so I try to tell myself
lifting my spirit above my body
if only for a moment in time

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as much as I think I should
I don’t pretend to know you
stranger in the midday sun
dancing in the city park
as if nobody is around
I sense undercover angels
hovering above you
unseen agents pulling strings
adding to your improvisations
interpreting forward movement
though grief is your dance
your eyes tell me otherwise
giving me pause and hope
that you may extend your hand
and take me with you

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how your angels sing the blues
atop tarnished ivory arches
interrupting your dreams by
bringing back consciousness
it’s just one more morning waking
up to sunshine and isolation
a single spot on google earth
a farmhouse
a mile in from gravel road aptly
named rabbit run
though unsure how you arrived
you’ve no intention of straying far
and on days to come find yourself
roaming fields in dead of winter
not a soul around for miles
and miles and miles

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somehow I lost you on a hot august night
whisked away by a bevy of thirsty angels
we had just left the tic toc tavern
our wits still in tact after discussing
the absence of the sun
looking back I had seen them all along
sitting quietly at the round table
pretending to be roadies for the show
as it would seem their murmurings
had everything to do with you
and how you would guide them
to their next destination

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I set the oscillating fan on the second
of three settings
blowing warm air straight through
the wounded angel
I don’t think she’s breathing
I say while trying to make the fan oscillate
I don’t know if angels actually breathe she said
wrapping a cold press across his forehead
aren’t angels supposed to be helping us
I say pressing button after button
would you just leave that damn thing alone
she said and help me move her
back into the shade
that damn sun keeps moving I say
he’s not looking so hot
shouldn’t we call 9-1-1 or something
no we’re not going to call 9-1-1 she said
what are you fucking crazy

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they said she was dying
and so she was
and so she did
pass away amongst nondescript
fanfare
time passed
and so everyone else living
(or everything else living at that)
continued on with time
some continuing to live in the moment
and others not so much
every so often her name comes up
in casual conversation
perhaps at a coffee shop
or walking past third street windows
pondering and wagering how many angels
were required to sail her away

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and so it seems every day is saturday
probably in the middle of may
downtown the farmers’ market’s abuzz
like a highly functional beehive
the children love to go downtown
where angels hang out in highrises
being seen by those who can see
otherwise merely open windows

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it’s come to this
mammals dressed in pants
fighting for territory on
principles born in the backwoods
countless centuries before christ
before dungeon and dragons
there was this game called
kill or be killed
and for whatever reason (ever since)
programmers can’t seem to shake the code
only the lowly and the few have witnessed
angels waiting in the wings
some perched atop palm trees
others drifting into the bay
hapless and humming
reluctantly waiting for the end to begin

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how is it you can turn nothing into
something in a matter of seconds
you reach up and snatch some fresh air
(without ever going outside)
and when you open your clenched fist
the place smells like lavender and lemon
it was you who opened your heart
to peace and serenity
recently pardoned by the sitting president
released into your custody after serving
thousands of years of a life sentence
there’s so much more I need to learn
you remember eagerly telling them
now let’s roll up our sleeves and figure out
exactly who needs us most

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what have I contributed
to the cause
keeping the music alive and
guarding elephants
from poachers
I’ve given up aerosol sprays
and gasoline
marlboro lights
store-bought soup
and religion
how much more do I have to give
that constant humming in my ear
is that just a warning from
my guardian angel
or simply a reminder
how those widely admired
can easily be swept away
like a night owl’s prey
silently screaming
absolution doesn’t exist
in the blink of an eye
and even if it did
no act of contrition could
prevent anyone from
seeing the light

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hurtling through space indefinitely
it was only a matter of time
before wormwood
reached the outer edges
exploding into a colorfully
destructive rainshower
up above trumpets sounded
and incense burned
angels huddled together
compacting balls of fire
and hurling them onto earth
though many on the surface
perished from such punishment
it was wormwood
that single-handedly wiped out
a third of all living things
both on land
and on sea
and below the sea
and though dust consumed
a third of the sun’s light
supersonic blasts
broke through the haze
telegraphing without question
the worst was yet to comehttps://jdubqca.files.wordpress.com/2014/10/wormwood.mp3
october two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
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